ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 16
A nervous Katelyn Nacon sits inside a small makeup trailer, anxiously awaiting what could be the audition of her life. Incessantly tapping her blue high-top sneakers atop the tile flooring, folding and crinkling the script she has read and re-read countless times these past three weeks, Katelyn is unable to do anything but fixate on the importance of this moment, and how it could ultimately shape the trajectory of her career.
The budding actress, with a popular television show and several small parts in film and web series under her belt, has been constantly on the lookout for her next breakout role. Yet despite such promising offers, from commercial advertisements to recurring characters in TV dramas, not one seemed to come close to the opportunity presented to her today. Through her boyfriend and Walking Dead co-star Chandler Riggs, she has been handed an audition for the part of Wendy Darling in the upcoming reboot of Disney’s Peter Pan franchise. With such a central role in the film, working for one of the most prominent movie studios in the world, it appears her magical wish had finally come true.
However, there was one detail, one tiny insignificant scene in the entirety of what was to amount to a three-hour film, that threatened to derail everything she had hope for, and it all had to do with…
“Katelyn!” calls a familiar voice, as Chandler makes his entrance into the trailer.
“Chandler!” she greets him, hoisting her arms around his shoulders, instantly reassured with his comforting face in her presence.
“The best of luck today!” he exclaims, adjusting the hair out of her face with his index finger, staring into the depths of her stark blue eyes. His face beaming, he attempts to infuse some confidence into her slouched unassuming posture. “I know you’re going to do great!”
“Thanks but,” she answers, trying to exude that same boundless energy, only to fall pitifully short much to his notice.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a look of concern scrawled across his face.
“It’s just that…I’m a little nervous about…you know,” she dictates, hugging the crumpled screenplay against her chest as though it were to shield herself.
“Don’t tell me you’re sweating the tickle scene Katelyn!” he exclaims, throwing a shiver down the young starlet’s spine with the mere presence of that dastardly word.
You see, it is common in film and television to employ an interrogation scene as a storytelling device: the protagonist, captured at the mercy of the antagonist, forced to hold their own until their inevitable rescue through the powers that be, all through the building of tension just as it seems they are about to crack. Such was to be her reality: the susceptible starlet captured by the dreaded Captain Hook and his crew, taken aboard their ship to extract the whereabouts of Peter Pan and the Lost Boys by any means at their disposal. However, the content of the interrogation itself is dependent solely on the rating desired, and given Disney’s propensity towards a PG rating, it was common sense to substitute tickling as the de facto way to loosen her tongue, a detail that makes Katelyn wish they had sprung for the R rating instead.
It was no secret to those in her inner circle that Katelyn was devastatingly ticklish, a detail that had plagued her throughout her entire life. Several episodes, etched forever within the walls of her psyche, have conditioned her to fear even its utterance: the recollection of being pinned down, stripped of her shoes and socks only to be tickled relentlessly to tears by those she had dared to call her friends and family. Yes, for it was to be her feet and her feet alone, from the bottoms of her heels all the way to the very tips of her toes, that would be ticklish beyond belief, and that have led her to be wary of any circumstances that would lead her susceptible to being tickled on them, inadvertently or otherwise. Her pedicures infrequent, she hides her feet constantly in her Converse sneakers, their design making it difficult to strip her of without her consent. However, had she just read through the entirety of the script beforehand, her excitement for being cast in such a role usurping her judgement, all this would not have reared its ugly head.
The moment she realized the presence of that scene in the screenplay, a full three days had passed since her acceptance of the audition. Thrown into a tailspin, trying to find some way to avoid it without looking like a flake, she had failed to resolve it by the time she came shuffling to the filmset. Even if it were guaranteed to be dramatized, not one scratch bestowed upon her precious size six feet, the threat of it turning on its head was too much for the young starlet, throwing her into a cold sweat as we speak.
“Look: you know how important this is to you,” Chandler assures her, comforting her with his gentle hand atop her shoulder. “I know how you feel about…that word. But this is your big break, and if you don’t do it, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life. Am I right?”
The dark clouds in her eyes slowly lift, revealing a sparkle of radiance, in tandem an assured smile scrawling itself across her face. Breathing a sigh of relief, she has taken what he has said to heart, assuring her that she is fully capable of realizing the scene to the best of her abilities.
“Come on, they’re waiting for you,” he says, taking her hand, leading her out of the trailer onto the movie set outside.
She steps into the interior of a makeshift pirate ship, its walls and flooring lined with rotting wooden panels and rickety furniture seemingly salvaged out of the dumpster (it even smelled like it too). Placed in the middle of the scene is a high-back wooden chair, ornamented with spiraled armrests and finely carved wooden legs. Just in front of it is a small wooden footstool, its circular top lined with a thick padding of green fabric. It would be here that her fortitude would be tested for all around her to see.
“Sergei!” Chandler calls out to a lengthy figure standing beyond the scene. Then turns the director: Sergei Rothschild, acclaimed European arthouse director who, having tasted his one chance of commercial notoriety (and the whiff of endless funding that comes with a Disney production), is at the helm of this multi-million-dollar project.
“This is my friend I was talking to you about, Katelyn!” he greets him, inserting Katelyn between them. “She’s ready for her audition!”
“It’s a pleasure to meet…” she attempts to shake his hand, his upturned nose and thick Ukrainian accent cutting her off.
“Please seat yourself, we haven’t a moment for pleasantries,” he sputters, directing her to the rickety chair that will be the interrogation scene. Leading her by the hand, Chandler directs Katelyn to the middle of the scene, placing her atop her throne. Despite its antiquated appearance, Katelyn notes, the chair’s construction proved to be sound, not one sound as she fidgets her way into place. At that moment, two stagehands swiftly surround her, their arms containing coils of thick nylon rope in which to bind her.
Katelyn, with her back arched straight against the chair, watches in curious horror as several meters of rope are wrapped around her upper arms. The rope is extraordinarily thick, almost an inch in diameter, only needing four or five loops before half her midsection is covered. With one solid layer, not a millimeter between each coil, the stagehand cinches it tight behind her back. She looks on as her wrists are given the same treatment, tied one at a time by the second assistant, each bound to their own armrest, her clenched fists betraying the inner nervousness she has yet to convey outside the trailer. Despite seeming to be scratchy old rope commonly found on naval vessels, its material proves to be very soft and smooth, keeping Katelyn comfortable even if she is rendered vulnerable.
“Now her ankles,” Sergei dictates, gazing over his small clipboard, a roster of additional actresses to take her place if need be.
Having the footstool pulled directly in front of her, Katelyn gently places the heels of her shoes atop the green material. Holding her ankles together, the two stagehands begin coiling the binds atop the fabric of her sneakers. Wrapping the rope around both ankles, they proceed to string it under and around the stool, binding it in several places. With the last knot tied in front of the stool, the two leave her in place, her heart pounding through her chest. It is here that Sergei approaches her, a look of disregard to her nervous eyes.
“Are you ready to begin young lady?” he asks, his thick rimmed glasses sitting just on the tip of his nose.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she answers, hoping to infuse some humor to block the impending torment that she may have to deal with.
“As you read in the script, and I sure hope you did read the script…” Sergei condescendingly dictates, looking over his downturned glasses to his naïve star, “…Captain Hook will approach you from behind, his monologue in process. He will strip you of your shoes, in which time you will not make one sound as he does, got it?”
“Yup!” she responds, a mixture of eagerness and anxiety propelling it out of her mouth.
“Hmm, spunky girl,” he grunts, walking to his director’s chair adjacent to the camera.
“Remove the shoes!” he orders, prompting two assistants to unlace the tops of her sneakers, sliding them off her socked feet. A slight giggle escapes her, the sensation of the material caressing the sides of her feet enough to elicit a ticklish response.
“Let’s do a sound check!” he states, the boom mic operator getting into position. “Melissa!” He calls over to a young woman in her early 30s, her headphones and mic indicating her to be some type of producer.
“Yes Sergei?” she asks, her clipboard possibly shielding her from his wrath.
“Dan’s not here for the part of Captain Hook,” he tells her. “I need you to play the part for this young girl’s audition.”
“Yes sir,” she says, approaching Katelyn in her most precarious position, kneeling just before her vulnerable socked feet.
“How you doing?” Melissa asks the girl, recognizing the concerned look in her eyes she’s seen in so many previous actresses.
“I’m…fine I guess,” Katelyn attempts to sound assured, a slight knot in her throat catching her midsentence.
“And…action!” Sergei snaps, prompting them to begin the scene.
“So Wendy tell me,” Melissa begins, walking around the bound starlet, gazing down at the defenseless creature. “Are you going to tell us where that green elf is, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?” Katelyn, just as instructed, remains completely mute, not even looking up at the looming figure.
“Tell us where they are and we’ll go easy on you!” Melissa calls out, a slightly gruff tone of voice meant to emulate the dastardly character. In character, Katelyn turns away, pursing her lips, upturning her nose, shunning the inquisitive tactics as if it were the real deal.
“Well, if you’re not willing to cooperate with us young lady,” she responds, circling the bound actress, tracing the tip of her finger across the top of the wooden chair, “then I’m afraid were going to have to get a bit more familiar with one another.” Crouching herself in front of Katelyn’s bound ankles, she begin slowly approaching her helpless feet, curling and wriggling her fingers in anticipation. Through the corner of her eye, Katelyn watches the approaching fingers, trying with all her might to suppress any sound that may inadvertently escape her too early. Inch by agonizing inch Melissa progresses until, just at the very last moment when she rests the tips of her fingers on the smooth fabric of Katelyn’s socks, a minute giggle escaping her lips, she stops. Unable to control herself, Katelyn turns towards her interrogator, falling into Melissa’s trap.
“Are you ready?” she asks, noting the tint of red encapsulating Katelyn’s face. However, before she can answer, Melissa begins skittering her nails across the soft fabric. Katelyn’s composure crumbles in an instant, throwing her head back, dissolving into full-throated laughter.
“PFFFFFFFFFFAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” Katelyn breaks, the grazing of Melissa’s nails overwhelming her defenses. Even through the thick material of her socks, the piercing quality of her acrylic nails is enough to cut deep to the soft skin of her soles.
“A little ticklish aren’t we young lady?” Melissa asks, deriving the sadistic pleasure anyone would in her situation.
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! WAHAHAHAHA NO WAIT!!” she laughs, facing the dastardly fingers of the unfamiliar woman, seemingly too good at this for the sake of a career. Melissa dances the tips of her fingers around the pristine white surface, taking care as not to miss one spot much to the starlet’s chagrin.
“Tell us where they are!” Melissa calls out over the hapless wails of the protagonist, sure that despite all the drama that they were most definitely still on script.
“IHEHEHEHEHE..I’LL NEVER TELLAAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAAH!!” she attempts to recite her lines, dissolving into cascades on unfettered laughter. Despite the fact Melissa had been haphazardly recruited into this role, it appears she had some rehearsal time, both her acting and ticking skills unmatched, extracting a palette of capricious responses from Katelyn much to her delight.
While her heels give way to high pitched girlish giggles, her soles let loose a torrent of full throated womanly laughter, a nice contrast that will make well on film. At certain points, when Melissa pounces on that most tender spot on the balls of her feet, a short squeal echoes through the room, followed by cascades of forced laughter as much as the poor girl can bear.
“If you don’t talk, then I’m just going to have to do this the hard way,” Melissa taunts, not even looking at the script anymore.
“HAHAHAHAHAHARD WAYHEHEHEHEH?!” Katelyn asks, forcing out that which she doesn’t even remember to be part of the script, no doubt blocking out that moment when she got to it.
“You asked for it princess!” she spouts, lunging her fingers into the crevice just underneath her toes.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” a shriek echoes throughout the soundstage, a wave of shock washing over the poor girl. Surely, no sane person would ever be that specific in their screenplay, no matter how much they were being paid to do so. Having this woman’s nails scrape into that tender flesh, her clenching toes doing nothing but keeping her wriggling fingers in their place, dishevels her beyond reason.
“AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA WAIT!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIT!!” she attempts to secure a breather, the might of her struggles making the chair scrape against the hardwood floor underneath. How vulnerable she feels, bound in front of one of the world’s leading directors, her pristine hair in tatters, matting against her sweat-caked brow, preliminary tears coalescing at the sides of her eyelids.
“Cut!” shouts Sergei, prompting Melissa to immediately cease her tickling.
“Oh thank God!” Katelyn grunts, gasps of air going through her strained throat, leaving her voice slightly hoarse.
“It’s like high school drama class all over again!” he tirades, throwing his hands above his head, tossing his notes clear across the room. “Take the socks off!” It is that moment that a ringing sound fills Katelyn’s ears, the shock of hearing such a command almost akin to that of a bomb going off right in front of her.
“No wait!” she spouts, the urgent nature of the situation now fully exposed to those around her. “You didn’t say anything about the socks coming off!”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures young lady!” he answers, almost casually brushing off her concern.
“Come on Katelyn!” Chandler intervenes, leaning his face into hers. “You just need to tough it out a little bit longer.”
Gently her socks are stripped from her, her sense of helplessness leaving her completely paralyzed. Revealing her precious bare size six feet to the cool air, a wave of panic starts to overwhelm her, a premonition if there ever was one.
“Begin again!” he orders, turning away, hoping to catch the sounds of a true actress and not some two-bit amateur.
“So Wendy tell me,” Melissa recites again, seemingly even more dramatics infused into her gruff voice. “Are you going to tell us where that green elf is, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”
“No wait!” Katelyn exclaims, resolving to skip a few pages to the end of the scene in order to save herself. “Okay I’ll tell you! Anything you want to know, it’s yours!”
“We’re not there yet!” Sergei barks, not even facing them as he does so.
“Well, if you’re not willing to cooperate with us young lady…”
“I am! I am, just give me a minute to tell you!” Katelyn tries to interject, tears now streaming down her moistened cheeks, knowing the minute she finishes that sentence will ultimately secure her downfall.
“…then I’m afraid were going to have to get a bit more familiar with one another.” The slight tone of Melissa’s voice betrays a slight guilt, knowing for sure she wouldn’t have the gumption to stand such torment for the sake of a job. However, knowing just how important this will be, she one again, leans herself down, plants her manicured nails atop the distressed girl’s bare soles, and begins tickling her in full.
“AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOOOOOOOOOO!!” Katelyn lets out a scream, rocking the chair back and forth to try and free herself from the jolts of electricity coursing through her person. “MERCYYYYYYYYYYYY!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!
“I don’t hear a star yet!” Sergei remarks, her pitiful screams falling just short of his astronomical expectations. Resolved to make sure she gets the part, Chandler, the person that got her the audition, assuring her everything was going to be alright, steps into the scene. Joining Melissa at her feet, he begins raking his nails underneath the flesh of Katelyn’s vulnerable toes, shooting her screams up another octave.
“CHANDLER NOO!! PLEEEEEEEEEEEEASE AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” the thought of her boyfriend as a participant in her suffering drives her over the cliff, rendering her even more desperate for freedom.
“Come on Katelyn, you can do this,” he mutters under his breath, prying her toes back with one hand, digging his fingers into the vulnerable flesh of her sole with the other. Such feebleness she displays at this moment, the two driving her to her wit’s end with the minimum amount of effort. Had she been stronger or more able, she could have wriggled herself free, but no chance: her binds keep hold, the chance of one of those stagehands being an eagle scout growing more apparent.
Tears begin free flowing down her cheeks, drenching the collar of her shirt, both of them not stopping to console the disheveled creature. What Chandler knew about her ticklishness, how much he could exploit that knowledge to her dismay, the possibilities now cascading through her tickle-drenched mind, blurring fantasy with reality this very moment.
“I need more emotion!” Sergei yells, prompting the two tickling her to moan with tiresome effort. “Time for the grand finale!”
It was the one part of the script that Katelyn couldn’t get to, the stacks of paper dropping from her trembling hands each time she tried to read through it. Taking a wicker hairbrush from behind the chair, Melissa turns it towards Katelyn’s captive bare feet, now revealing a tint of dark pink through all the torment. A sigh of regret can be heard from Chandler, washed out by the cascades of pleas that are coming out of his girlfriend right this moment.
“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAPPPP!! PLEASE!!” she cries out to them, hoping that at least one word from her contorted mouth will elicit some sympathy out of them. Little did she know that, to the best of their knowledge, they were doing this for her own good. They were under the belief, just as she was, that this was her big break, and by going out of their way, no matter how much it pained them to see her suffer under their tickling fingers, that she would thank them for it later.
“I’m sorry Katelyn,” the two mutter under their breaths in unison. As Chandler holds her feet in place, Melissa presses the hellish device into her soles, breaking the poor starlet in two.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOOOOO WAAAAAAAAAIT!!”
Her wild cackles consume her, the hard bristles extracting every last primal sound out of her strained gullet. Halfway through Chandler releases his grasp, her feet flailing about as they try to avoid Melissa’s skillful ways. Little did she know, her eyes clenched shut from sheer torture, Chandler was being handed a set of pipe cleaners at Sergei’s request. However, the moment he begins sawing them between her supple toes, Katelyn’s eyes turn to saucers, staring at the inconceivable image that plagues her.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” Her shrill cries dissolve into silent laughter, mouthing her desperate pleas as she has not one ounce of air left to vocalize them. The pipe cleaners, as she has come to forcibly learn have the dual purpose of maddeningly tickling her while keeping her toes immobilized enough to do their work. Such a detail proves too much for her, the very last thing that has finally broken the camel’s back. That’s it: she quits. The very next split second she is given for air she will take the reins, bring this madness to a close and, with a shriek of pure desperation yell…
“CUT!” Sergei interjects, the two ticklers paralyzed from such an abrupt interruption. “The audition is over, untie her please.” Obediently they do what he says, unbinding the myriad of cinched knots all around her person, a full five minutes before she is fully freed. Yet she doesn’t stir, not one inch other than her chest heaving up and down, her head slumped with matted hair covering her face.
“Come on Katelyn,” a remorseful Chandler whispers, taking her arm over his shoulders, hoisting her limp body up by her waist. “I’ll take you home.” Silently she rises, joining him as they slowly shuffle off the set. Her feet tingle with every strained step, echoes of what she believes to have been hours of tickle torture. As Sergei and Melissa converse, their speech becoming more distant with every step, Katelyn and Chandler find themselves, once again, in the privacy of the makeup trailer.
“Katelyn,” he speaks, turning to her, unable to glimpse into her beautiful blue eyes, surely now drowning in tears. “I’m…I’m so sorry I…I thought I was doing the right thing and…and I don’t know what came…” Before he can finish his rambling, she hoists her arms over his shoulders, embracing him the same way she did her supportive boyfriend one hour before.
“It’s okay,” she meekly dictates, a scratchy voice all she has left. “I forgive you.” They would continue to stay in this position for the next three hours, until the janitor finally directed them out, handing back her shoes…
A jilted Katelyn Nacon walks out of the bedroom of her apartment, the sun having risen only six hours previous. It is the morning after her treacherous audition, bound helplessly, tickled without mercy, and all for nothing. Tired and defeated, she has resolved herself to a lifetime of failure and struggle, where the only hope for her will be the next fast food commercial and sale at the local used car lot. She twirls the small bag of green tea inside, seating herself at the coffee table still holding marked up copies of that dastardly screenplay. She would discard them, but something inside wants to be reminded of her failure, either that or she has yet to regain full strength in her arms to hoist up her garbage can. Whatever the reason we will never know, for in that moment she receives an instant message, and as she checks her phone, ready to call up her manager for the next role as Distressed Crowd Member No. 37, she receives a simple four-word message from Chandler, its content making the rest of her life.
You’ve got the part.
The End
The budding actress, with a popular television show and several small parts in film and web series under her belt, has been constantly on the lookout for her next breakout role. Yet despite such promising offers, from commercial advertisements to recurring characters in TV dramas, not one seemed to come close to the opportunity presented to her today. Through her boyfriend and Walking Dead co-star Chandler Riggs, she has been handed an audition for the part of Wendy Darling in the upcoming reboot of Disney’s Peter Pan franchise. With such a central role in the film, working for one of the most prominent movie studios in the world, it appears her magical wish had finally come true.
However, there was one detail, one tiny insignificant scene in the entirety of what was to amount to a three-hour film, that threatened to derail everything she had hope for, and it all had to do with…
“Katelyn!” calls a familiar voice, as Chandler makes his entrance into the trailer.
“Chandler!” she greets him, hoisting her arms around his shoulders, instantly reassured with his comforting face in her presence.
“The best of luck today!” he exclaims, adjusting the hair out of her face with his index finger, staring into the depths of her stark blue eyes. His face beaming, he attempts to infuse some confidence into her slouched unassuming posture. “I know you’re going to do great!”
“Thanks but,” she answers, trying to exude that same boundless energy, only to fall pitifully short much to his notice.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a look of concern scrawled across his face.
“It’s just that…I’m a little nervous about…you know,” she dictates, hugging the crumpled screenplay against her chest as though it were to shield herself.
“Don’t tell me you’re sweating the tickle scene Katelyn!” he exclaims, throwing a shiver down the young starlet’s spine with the mere presence of that dastardly word.
You see, it is common in film and television to employ an interrogation scene as a storytelling device: the protagonist, captured at the mercy of the antagonist, forced to hold their own until their inevitable rescue through the powers that be, all through the building of tension just as it seems they are about to crack. Such was to be her reality: the susceptible starlet captured by the dreaded Captain Hook and his crew, taken aboard their ship to extract the whereabouts of Peter Pan and the Lost Boys by any means at their disposal. However, the content of the interrogation itself is dependent solely on the rating desired, and given Disney’s propensity towards a PG rating, it was common sense to substitute tickling as the de facto way to loosen her tongue, a detail that makes Katelyn wish they had sprung for the R rating instead.
It was no secret to those in her inner circle that Katelyn was devastatingly ticklish, a detail that had plagued her throughout her entire life. Several episodes, etched forever within the walls of her psyche, have conditioned her to fear even its utterance: the recollection of being pinned down, stripped of her shoes and socks only to be tickled relentlessly to tears by those she had dared to call her friends and family. Yes, for it was to be her feet and her feet alone, from the bottoms of her heels all the way to the very tips of her toes, that would be ticklish beyond belief, and that have led her to be wary of any circumstances that would lead her susceptible to being tickled on them, inadvertently or otherwise. Her pedicures infrequent, she hides her feet constantly in her Converse sneakers, their design making it difficult to strip her of without her consent. However, had she just read through the entirety of the script beforehand, her excitement for being cast in such a role usurping her judgement, all this would not have reared its ugly head.
The moment she realized the presence of that scene in the screenplay, a full three days had passed since her acceptance of the audition. Thrown into a tailspin, trying to find some way to avoid it without looking like a flake, she had failed to resolve it by the time she came shuffling to the filmset. Even if it were guaranteed to be dramatized, not one scratch bestowed upon her precious size six feet, the threat of it turning on its head was too much for the young starlet, throwing her into a cold sweat as we speak.
“Look: you know how important this is to you,” Chandler assures her, comforting her with his gentle hand atop her shoulder. “I know how you feel about…that word. But this is your big break, and if you don’t do it, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life. Am I right?”
The dark clouds in her eyes slowly lift, revealing a sparkle of radiance, in tandem an assured smile scrawling itself across her face. Breathing a sigh of relief, she has taken what he has said to heart, assuring her that she is fully capable of realizing the scene to the best of her abilities.
“Come on, they’re waiting for you,” he says, taking her hand, leading her out of the trailer onto the movie set outside.
She steps into the interior of a makeshift pirate ship, its walls and flooring lined with rotting wooden panels and rickety furniture seemingly salvaged out of the dumpster (it even smelled like it too). Placed in the middle of the scene is a high-back wooden chair, ornamented with spiraled armrests and finely carved wooden legs. Just in front of it is a small wooden footstool, its circular top lined with a thick padding of green fabric. It would be here that her fortitude would be tested for all around her to see.
“Sergei!” Chandler calls out to a lengthy figure standing beyond the scene. Then turns the director: Sergei Rothschild, acclaimed European arthouse director who, having tasted his one chance of commercial notoriety (and the whiff of endless funding that comes with a Disney production), is at the helm of this multi-million-dollar project.
“This is my friend I was talking to you about, Katelyn!” he greets him, inserting Katelyn between them. “She’s ready for her audition!”
“It’s a pleasure to meet…” she attempts to shake his hand, his upturned nose and thick Ukrainian accent cutting her off.
“Please seat yourself, we haven’t a moment for pleasantries,” he sputters, directing her to the rickety chair that will be the interrogation scene. Leading her by the hand, Chandler directs Katelyn to the middle of the scene, placing her atop her throne. Despite its antiquated appearance, Katelyn notes, the chair’s construction proved to be sound, not one sound as she fidgets her way into place. At that moment, two stagehands swiftly surround her, their arms containing coils of thick nylon rope in which to bind her.
Katelyn, with her back arched straight against the chair, watches in curious horror as several meters of rope are wrapped around her upper arms. The rope is extraordinarily thick, almost an inch in diameter, only needing four or five loops before half her midsection is covered. With one solid layer, not a millimeter between each coil, the stagehand cinches it tight behind her back. She looks on as her wrists are given the same treatment, tied one at a time by the second assistant, each bound to their own armrest, her clenched fists betraying the inner nervousness she has yet to convey outside the trailer. Despite seeming to be scratchy old rope commonly found on naval vessels, its material proves to be very soft and smooth, keeping Katelyn comfortable even if she is rendered vulnerable.
“Now her ankles,” Sergei dictates, gazing over his small clipboard, a roster of additional actresses to take her place if need be.
Having the footstool pulled directly in front of her, Katelyn gently places the heels of her shoes atop the green material. Holding her ankles together, the two stagehands begin coiling the binds atop the fabric of her sneakers. Wrapping the rope around both ankles, they proceed to string it under and around the stool, binding it in several places. With the last knot tied in front of the stool, the two leave her in place, her heart pounding through her chest. It is here that Sergei approaches her, a look of disregard to her nervous eyes.
“Are you ready to begin young lady?” he asks, his thick rimmed glasses sitting just on the tip of his nose.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she answers, hoping to infuse some humor to block the impending torment that she may have to deal with.
“As you read in the script, and I sure hope you did read the script…” Sergei condescendingly dictates, looking over his downturned glasses to his naïve star, “…Captain Hook will approach you from behind, his monologue in process. He will strip you of your shoes, in which time you will not make one sound as he does, got it?”
“Yup!” she responds, a mixture of eagerness and anxiety propelling it out of her mouth.
“Hmm, spunky girl,” he grunts, walking to his director’s chair adjacent to the camera.
“Remove the shoes!” he orders, prompting two assistants to unlace the tops of her sneakers, sliding them off her socked feet. A slight giggle escapes her, the sensation of the material caressing the sides of her feet enough to elicit a ticklish response.
“Let’s do a sound check!” he states, the boom mic operator getting into position. “Melissa!” He calls over to a young woman in her early 30s, her headphones and mic indicating her to be some type of producer.
“Yes Sergei?” she asks, her clipboard possibly shielding her from his wrath.
“Dan’s not here for the part of Captain Hook,” he tells her. “I need you to play the part for this young girl’s audition.”
“Yes sir,” she says, approaching Katelyn in her most precarious position, kneeling just before her vulnerable socked feet.
“How you doing?” Melissa asks the girl, recognizing the concerned look in her eyes she’s seen in so many previous actresses.
“I’m…fine I guess,” Katelyn attempts to sound assured, a slight knot in her throat catching her midsentence.
“And…action!” Sergei snaps, prompting them to begin the scene.
“So Wendy tell me,” Melissa begins, walking around the bound starlet, gazing down at the defenseless creature. “Are you going to tell us where that green elf is, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?” Katelyn, just as instructed, remains completely mute, not even looking up at the looming figure.
“Tell us where they are and we’ll go easy on you!” Melissa calls out, a slightly gruff tone of voice meant to emulate the dastardly character. In character, Katelyn turns away, pursing her lips, upturning her nose, shunning the inquisitive tactics as if it were the real deal.
“Well, if you’re not willing to cooperate with us young lady,” she responds, circling the bound actress, tracing the tip of her finger across the top of the wooden chair, “then I’m afraid were going to have to get a bit more familiar with one another.” Crouching herself in front of Katelyn’s bound ankles, she begin slowly approaching her helpless feet, curling and wriggling her fingers in anticipation. Through the corner of her eye, Katelyn watches the approaching fingers, trying with all her might to suppress any sound that may inadvertently escape her too early. Inch by agonizing inch Melissa progresses until, just at the very last moment when she rests the tips of her fingers on the smooth fabric of Katelyn’s socks, a minute giggle escaping her lips, she stops. Unable to control herself, Katelyn turns towards her interrogator, falling into Melissa’s trap.
“Are you ready?” she asks, noting the tint of red encapsulating Katelyn’s face. However, before she can answer, Melissa begins skittering her nails across the soft fabric. Katelyn’s composure crumbles in an instant, throwing her head back, dissolving into full-throated laughter.
“PFFFFFFFFFFAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” Katelyn breaks, the grazing of Melissa’s nails overwhelming her defenses. Even through the thick material of her socks, the piercing quality of her acrylic nails is enough to cut deep to the soft skin of her soles.
“A little ticklish aren’t we young lady?” Melissa asks, deriving the sadistic pleasure anyone would in her situation.
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! WAHAHAHAHA NO WAIT!!” she laughs, facing the dastardly fingers of the unfamiliar woman, seemingly too good at this for the sake of a career. Melissa dances the tips of her fingers around the pristine white surface, taking care as not to miss one spot much to the starlet’s chagrin.
“Tell us where they are!” Melissa calls out over the hapless wails of the protagonist, sure that despite all the drama that they were most definitely still on script.
“IHEHEHEHEHE..I’LL NEVER TELLAAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAAH!!” she attempts to recite her lines, dissolving into cascades on unfettered laughter. Despite the fact Melissa had been haphazardly recruited into this role, it appears she had some rehearsal time, both her acting and ticking skills unmatched, extracting a palette of capricious responses from Katelyn much to her delight.
While her heels give way to high pitched girlish giggles, her soles let loose a torrent of full throated womanly laughter, a nice contrast that will make well on film. At certain points, when Melissa pounces on that most tender spot on the balls of her feet, a short squeal echoes through the room, followed by cascades of forced laughter as much as the poor girl can bear.
“If you don’t talk, then I’m just going to have to do this the hard way,” Melissa taunts, not even looking at the script anymore.
“HAHAHAHAHAHARD WAYHEHEHEHEH?!” Katelyn asks, forcing out that which she doesn’t even remember to be part of the script, no doubt blocking out that moment when she got to it.
“You asked for it princess!” she spouts, lunging her fingers into the crevice just underneath her toes.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” a shriek echoes throughout the soundstage, a wave of shock washing over the poor girl. Surely, no sane person would ever be that specific in their screenplay, no matter how much they were being paid to do so. Having this woman’s nails scrape into that tender flesh, her clenching toes doing nothing but keeping her wriggling fingers in their place, dishevels her beyond reason.
“AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA WAIT!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIT!!” she attempts to secure a breather, the might of her struggles making the chair scrape against the hardwood floor underneath. How vulnerable she feels, bound in front of one of the world’s leading directors, her pristine hair in tatters, matting against her sweat-caked brow, preliminary tears coalescing at the sides of her eyelids.
“Cut!” shouts Sergei, prompting Melissa to immediately cease her tickling.
“Oh thank God!” Katelyn grunts, gasps of air going through her strained throat, leaving her voice slightly hoarse.
“It’s like high school drama class all over again!” he tirades, throwing his hands above his head, tossing his notes clear across the room. “Take the socks off!” It is that moment that a ringing sound fills Katelyn’s ears, the shock of hearing such a command almost akin to that of a bomb going off right in front of her.
“No wait!” she spouts, the urgent nature of the situation now fully exposed to those around her. “You didn’t say anything about the socks coming off!”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures young lady!” he answers, almost casually brushing off her concern.
“Come on Katelyn!” Chandler intervenes, leaning his face into hers. “You just need to tough it out a little bit longer.”
Gently her socks are stripped from her, her sense of helplessness leaving her completely paralyzed. Revealing her precious bare size six feet to the cool air, a wave of panic starts to overwhelm her, a premonition if there ever was one.
“Begin again!” he orders, turning away, hoping to catch the sounds of a true actress and not some two-bit amateur.
“So Wendy tell me,” Melissa recites again, seemingly even more dramatics infused into her gruff voice. “Are you going to tell us where that green elf is, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”
“No wait!” Katelyn exclaims, resolving to skip a few pages to the end of the scene in order to save herself. “Okay I’ll tell you! Anything you want to know, it’s yours!”
“We’re not there yet!” Sergei barks, not even facing them as he does so.
“Well, if you’re not willing to cooperate with us young lady…”
“I am! I am, just give me a minute to tell you!” Katelyn tries to interject, tears now streaming down her moistened cheeks, knowing the minute she finishes that sentence will ultimately secure her downfall.
“…then I’m afraid were going to have to get a bit more familiar with one another.” The slight tone of Melissa’s voice betrays a slight guilt, knowing for sure she wouldn’t have the gumption to stand such torment for the sake of a job. However, knowing just how important this will be, she one again, leans herself down, plants her manicured nails atop the distressed girl’s bare soles, and begins tickling her in full.
“AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOOOOOOOOOO!!” Katelyn lets out a scream, rocking the chair back and forth to try and free herself from the jolts of electricity coursing through her person. “MERCYYYYYYYYYYYY!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!
“I don’t hear a star yet!” Sergei remarks, her pitiful screams falling just short of his astronomical expectations. Resolved to make sure she gets the part, Chandler, the person that got her the audition, assuring her everything was going to be alright, steps into the scene. Joining Melissa at her feet, he begins raking his nails underneath the flesh of Katelyn’s vulnerable toes, shooting her screams up another octave.
“CHANDLER NOO!! PLEEEEEEEEEEEEASE AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” the thought of her boyfriend as a participant in her suffering drives her over the cliff, rendering her even more desperate for freedom.
“Come on Katelyn, you can do this,” he mutters under his breath, prying her toes back with one hand, digging his fingers into the vulnerable flesh of her sole with the other. Such feebleness she displays at this moment, the two driving her to her wit’s end with the minimum amount of effort. Had she been stronger or more able, she could have wriggled herself free, but no chance: her binds keep hold, the chance of one of those stagehands being an eagle scout growing more apparent.
Tears begin free flowing down her cheeks, drenching the collar of her shirt, both of them not stopping to console the disheveled creature. What Chandler knew about her ticklishness, how much he could exploit that knowledge to her dismay, the possibilities now cascading through her tickle-drenched mind, blurring fantasy with reality this very moment.
“I need more emotion!” Sergei yells, prompting the two tickling her to moan with tiresome effort. “Time for the grand finale!”
It was the one part of the script that Katelyn couldn’t get to, the stacks of paper dropping from her trembling hands each time she tried to read through it. Taking a wicker hairbrush from behind the chair, Melissa turns it towards Katelyn’s captive bare feet, now revealing a tint of dark pink through all the torment. A sigh of regret can be heard from Chandler, washed out by the cascades of pleas that are coming out of his girlfriend right this moment.
“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAPPPP!! PLEASE!!” she cries out to them, hoping that at least one word from her contorted mouth will elicit some sympathy out of them. Little did she know that, to the best of their knowledge, they were doing this for her own good. They were under the belief, just as she was, that this was her big break, and by going out of their way, no matter how much it pained them to see her suffer under their tickling fingers, that she would thank them for it later.
“I’m sorry Katelyn,” the two mutter under their breaths in unison. As Chandler holds her feet in place, Melissa presses the hellish device into her soles, breaking the poor starlet in two.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOOOOO WAAAAAAAAAIT!!”
Her wild cackles consume her, the hard bristles extracting every last primal sound out of her strained gullet. Halfway through Chandler releases his grasp, her feet flailing about as they try to avoid Melissa’s skillful ways. Little did she know, her eyes clenched shut from sheer torture, Chandler was being handed a set of pipe cleaners at Sergei’s request. However, the moment he begins sawing them between her supple toes, Katelyn’s eyes turn to saucers, staring at the inconceivable image that plagues her.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” Her shrill cries dissolve into silent laughter, mouthing her desperate pleas as she has not one ounce of air left to vocalize them. The pipe cleaners, as she has come to forcibly learn have the dual purpose of maddeningly tickling her while keeping her toes immobilized enough to do their work. Such a detail proves too much for her, the very last thing that has finally broken the camel’s back. That’s it: she quits. The very next split second she is given for air she will take the reins, bring this madness to a close and, with a shriek of pure desperation yell…
“CUT!” Sergei interjects, the two ticklers paralyzed from such an abrupt interruption. “The audition is over, untie her please.” Obediently they do what he says, unbinding the myriad of cinched knots all around her person, a full five minutes before she is fully freed. Yet she doesn’t stir, not one inch other than her chest heaving up and down, her head slumped with matted hair covering her face.
“Come on Katelyn,” a remorseful Chandler whispers, taking her arm over his shoulders, hoisting her limp body up by her waist. “I’ll take you home.” Silently she rises, joining him as they slowly shuffle off the set. Her feet tingle with every strained step, echoes of what she believes to have been hours of tickle torture. As Sergei and Melissa converse, their speech becoming more distant with every step, Katelyn and Chandler find themselves, once again, in the privacy of the makeup trailer.
“Katelyn,” he speaks, turning to her, unable to glimpse into her beautiful blue eyes, surely now drowning in tears. “I’m…I’m so sorry I…I thought I was doing the right thing and…and I don’t know what came…” Before he can finish his rambling, she hoists her arms over his shoulders, embracing him the same way she did her supportive boyfriend one hour before.
“It’s okay,” she meekly dictates, a scratchy voice all she has left. “I forgive you.” They would continue to stay in this position for the next three hours, until the janitor finally directed them out, handing back her shoes…
A jilted Katelyn Nacon walks out of the bedroom of her apartment, the sun having risen only six hours previous. It is the morning after her treacherous audition, bound helplessly, tickled without mercy, and all for nothing. Tired and defeated, she has resolved herself to a lifetime of failure and struggle, where the only hope for her will be the next fast food commercial and sale at the local used car lot. She twirls the small bag of green tea inside, seating herself at the coffee table still holding marked up copies of that dastardly screenplay. She would discard them, but something inside wants to be reminded of her failure, either that or she has yet to regain full strength in her arms to hoist up her garbage can. Whatever the reason we will never know, for in that moment she receives an instant message, and as she checks her phone, ready to call up her manager for the next role as Distressed Crowd Member No. 37, she receives a simple four-word message from Chandler, its content making the rest of her life.
You’ve got the part.
The End
